


Far Beyond the City Walls

by 0Rocky41_7



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Red Hawke (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 23:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: Hawke has a plan for how to respond to Varric's summons to Skyhold. Fenris disagrees.





	Far Beyond the City Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Fenhawke fandom! This is my first contribution so please let me know if you think I captured Fenris' character or not. 
> 
> Some minor background on this Hawke: This Hawke was my red/aggressive!Hawke playthrough, but after the fall of Kirkwall she had a personal crisis and has been trying to reform herself to a more patient, empathetic person, which is referenced a few times below. I also swear on my heart I did not plan to pair her with Fenris when I named her Freya. It just happened.

“It seems like a bad idea.” Fenris shook his head to fling off the drops of water clinging to the ends of his hair. Other droplets took the chance to slide down his face into his eyes. How many days had this conversation been going on?

“Of course it is,” Hawke said, not reacting in the slightest to the mist showering them. Sometimes Fenris was reminded of how Ferelden she was, despite her many years in Kirkwall. “But it’s Varric. And it…”

Fenris knew what was coming. It “felt like the right thing to do”. Hawke had been saying that an awful lot lately, and he wasn’t sure what new principles were guiding her actions, but it all seemed primarily based on her belief that if she had been “more like Bethany” Kirkwall would not have met its ignominious fate. He made no response, but sped his pony up a bit to outpace her by a few feet.

“Do you feel right leaving him unanswered?” she called after him. Fenris groaned and tipped his head back for a moment.

“..._no, _but that doesn’t mean you should go rushing into the arms of the Templars!” As much as Fenris trumpeted the necessity of the Templars, he was not so sure he trusted them to do well by Hawke, not after their departure in Kirkwall. Whatever had gotten into Knight-Commander Meredith’s head was getting into theirs too, and he felt more comfortable staying away from the whole mage-Templar affair.

“Varric would come for us,” Hawke muttered. Fenris groaned again.

“If you’ve already made up your mind, why are you asking me?” he asked.

“Fenris, Maker’s Breath—are you arguing _against_ a chance to share your opinion?” Hawke’s words were jesting, but her expression had none of the associated levity, nor the biting of her more taunting remarks.

“We’re not idle here,” Fenris pointed out, pulling on the reins to bring his pony into step with Hawke’s again. “We’re doing good work, Hawke.”

“I know, and I’m glad,” she said, turning to him. It was a rare moment where her eyes were soft, vulnerable—she wanted his opinion. Had she not made up her mind, then? “But this is personal. If we don’t go for Varric, who will? His family won’t—I’m sure he hasn’t even written them. Merrill can’t help, Aveline is busy, Carver isn’t high up enough in the Templars to do anything…it’s just us.”

“He didn’t say he was in trouble,” Fenris reminded her. “What makes you so sure he needs help?” Hawke huffed out a sigh and looked up at the sky, pale gray and starting to darken.

“A feeling,” she said at last, twisting her hands on her pony’s reins.

“It just seems like a bad idea,” he said. “But if you are determined to go, we’ll go. I do not like the idea of Varric in the hands of the Seekers either. Whatever he’s gotten himself into…” Fenris shook his head and dismounted the pony once they were under the safe cover of the stable.

“Do you think he’d ask for help if he didn’t need it?” Hawke asked, agitating for his agreement. He sighed quietly and set to removing his pony’s saddle.

“I don’t know.” Fenris had never been in the habit of agreeing with people to mollify them, even Hawke. He could sense the disquiet in her sharp, curt movements as she brushed down her pony, but let them carry on in silence until his own mount was taken care of. “I suppose we’ll just have to find out.” To his surprise, the ill silence continued, and Hawke did not look up at him. He paused in what he was doing, until she spoke.

“I’m going alone,” she said. Immediately, Fenris tensed up as if preparing for a fistfight.

“The hell you are,” he said.

“It’s dangerous,” she said.

“Are you fucking with me, Hawke? I hunted down a serial killer with you. I’ve been battling slavers with you for months. I fought First Enchanter Orsino _and_ Knight-Commander Meredith with you! But this is _too dangerous_?” The savage mockery in his voice tore at Hawke’s pronouncement.

“This is different,” she insisted.

“Danarius isn’t even around—”

“There’s a _war_ on—”

“—couldn’t _possibly_ be more dangerous than—”

“Fenris!” Hawke had an annoying habit of simply shouting over him when she wanted his attention, and he could never quite match her volume. “Varric’s been captured by the Seekers of Truth. They don’t fuck around. And in case you hadn’t noticed, there was a goddamned _hole_ in the _sky _not even two months ago. Whatever’s going on now makes Kirkwall look like chicken shit.”

“If anything, _you_ should be the one staying behind!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “You’re the apostate!”

“Every mage is an apostate now,” she said. “We don’t even know that Varric is writing us of his own free will. It may very well be a trap laid by the Seekers!”

“Which is _all_ the more reason I should be with you,” Fenris argued, stepping to the entrance of the stall where Hawke was settling her pony. The straw prickled the bottoms of his feet, and while the rain had not been enough to soak him, he was still uncomfortably damp. Fenris had never found himself with much longing for Tevinter, but he was supremely irritated to find himself occasionally daydreaming of the sun-warmed stones of Tevene streets against his feet, the heat of the sun on his back while he trained, and nights with the windows thrown open wide to let in the mild breeze. Anything but the perpetual damp chill of Ferelden. 

“If the Seekers are setting a trap, it’s not for you,” Hawke said with a grim set to her face.

“You think I would just let you walk into their hands?” Fenris shifted from foot-to-foot, clenching his hands. There was a fight to be had here, but his sword would be useless for it.

“I’m not asking you to _let_ me do anything—I’m _telling_ you what I’m doing,” she said, lifting her ice-blue eyes to his. How he _hated _that mulish look! Directed at him, it only ever meant trouble. The idea that he could have found someone even more stubborn than he was was simply outrageous, yet here was Hawke, _again_ putting him on the run for his money.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you got to make the ultimate decision here.” Fenris’ shoulders were rigid. “Did you hang onto the viscount title without telling me? Or do you just think you know best, as always?”

“Hey!” Hawke jumped to her feet—another annoying thing in these moments. She was more than a head taller, forcing him to look _up_ to continue arguing with her. “I’m choosing to risk my life here, that’s my decision!”

“And it’s _my_ decision to do the same,” Fenris shot back, folding his arms so tightly against his chest it cut short his breathing. “So you can forget about leaving me behind.” A muscle jumped in Hawke’s jaw, and he could practically _see_ her restraining her infamous temper. Three years ago, he was sure she would have flung some vicious barb at him, to irritate him if nothing more, but her efforts to rein herself in seemed to have been paying off: she said nothing, she swept past him, without even ramming her shoulder against his on the way by.

They supped at the inn, as they had done for the last three nights. Hawke’s small fortune was invaluable on the road, but they were both conscious of the need to make it last, and stay inconspicuous, so the last several months had been spent at similarly dingy inns eating similarly bland food. Again, Fenris was rankled by thinking anything positive about Tevinter—but the _food_. Not that he’d have traded all the food in Tevinter for sitting there by Hawke’s side, even when they were both in sullen silence over their earlier skirmish.

In the dim light, thrown about the walls by the fireplace and the lanterns dangling from the ceiling beams, Fenris studied Hawke’s profile. It stood out more since she had shorn her hair off following their departure from Kirkwall, in a frighteningly close approximation of an Andrastian penitent. Religion was not something he and Hawke discussed much—nor was it something Hawke thought about much-- but he had to wonder from where she took her lead. Her guilt pervaded every effort at self-reform and it was impossible for him not to see a thread of repentance in her actions. Was that where she got off trying to leave him behind _for his own good_?

While he sat, scrutinizing Hawke’s motives, she reached out and set a hand on his leg. Fenris looked over at the door, then slowly moved his arm off the back of his chair, and put his hand over Hawke’s, curling his fingers around it. Her shoulders relaxed some, as if she’d let out a deep breath.

“Are you ready to go upstairs?” she asked after they had let another extended silence pass between them. Fenris glanced around the inn. There were a couple lone lodgers about, but otherwise it was quiet. He did not imagine this village saw much travel, except as a through to ever-more distant locales.

“I don’t know. I might stay up a while longer.”

“Come upstairs,” Hawke amended, letting her eyes make the quiet plea her words never would.

“Alright.” They rose, and retired to their room. Hawke lingered by the window and watched—with an attempt at pretending otherwise—as he stripped off his armor and outerwear. “Well?” he asked, arching a snow-white brow when he stood in his breeches and shirt and she had not moved. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah. I’m coming.” He considered teasing about her staring, and the hint of the smile twitched on his lips, but he held back. When Hawke stared at him out of desire, she made little pretense about it, and he did relish the way she smirked when he caught her, as much as she seemed to enjoy the way he slowed down when he saw her watching. She herself never made much of a show about it, and that night was no exception—she stripped with admirable speed, tucked her clothes over by her bag, and crawled into bed, gesturing at him as he joined her. On her face was the darkly contemplative look she had worn intermittently ever since the downfalls of Meredith and Orsino.

“Whatever Varric has himself tied up in…it can’t be worse than anything we’ve seen so far,” Fenris said as he laid down, settling his head on Hawke’s chest. Her fingers moved immediately to stroke his hair, digging her fingers into the coarse locks and twisting the ends absently between her fingers. He put an arm over her, softening and warming at the simple nearness of her, like easing into a hot bath after a long day. It was something he began to think would never go away, and that thought did not displease him. He had never been as close with Hawke’s friends as she was, and with his sister dead, Hawke was the only family—the only connection, the only thing that tied him to the earth—that he had. That was why he had no intention of letting her go after Varric alone, regardless of the severity or mildness of the situation.

“Ha,” she responded weakly. “We’ll see about that.” He wondered if she was thinking about the grotesque beast that had once been First Enchanter Orsino, bearing down on them with the bloody stench of the mages who had died to give birth to it; or of her mother’s face sewn onto a stranger’s body, stumbling into her arms to expire mere hours after Hawke might have saved her; or of Bethany, of whom Hawke almost never spoke, torn apart by Darkspawn before the Hawkes had ever set foot in the Free Marches, a death for which Leandra had never forgiven her. Fenris tightened his arm around Hawke, pressing his face against her.

“With you and Varric and I, it will be almost the old team again,” he said. “We can handle whatever the Seekers have to throw at us. Don’t believe anything less.” She made another laughter-like sound in the back of her throat.

“Nothing keeps you down for long, does it Fenris?” She ruffled his hair. “If only we could drag Aveline along with us!”

“I imagine she’s still quite busy in Kirkwall.” The guard was needed more than ever: the chaos had been unabated when Fenris and Hawke slipped out the back door of the viscount’s mansion and surrendered any further responsibility for its state.

“I imagine she doesn’t have time to fart, never mind tagging along with us to rescue Varric from the Seekers of Truth,” Hawke snorted. “Hopefully she’s still in touch with Merrill. She can at least help with the elves.” Fenris rumbled in discontent, but Hawke said nothing else. Once, they had agreed that Merrill was a dangerous twit likely to get herself killed along with everyone else around her, but Hawke had changed direction after Merrill smashed the eluvian. Fenris still did not trust her, but it was a relief to know she was not, to their knowledge, dealing with demons anymore. Tentatively, he thought it was possible she could change. Hawke was changing, wasn’t she? Maybe that was it—Hawke wanted to believe Merrill could be different, because that meant Hawke could be different too.

“Hopefully they can make a difference,” he said at last.

“Mm. I wonder if we’ll ever go back someday,” she wondered aloud. “To Kirkwall.”

“I don’t know. That depends on what you want,” Fenris said, rising up on one elbow to look at Hawke’s face. “I go where you go.” That brought a smile to Hawke’s stern features, and she reached up to touch his face. Her fingers moved back into his hair, and she pulled him down for a short kiss.

“Don’t go getting all sappy on me,” she said. “It’ll ruin your stoic bad-boy image.” Fenris scoffed.

“It’s not an _image_,” he said.

“You gave me a flower the other day,” she said.

“We passed right by them!” he said.

“I’m _pretty _sure I heard you talking to your pony,” she said.

“I was complaining about the weather,” he said.

“In that case, carry on. I don’t think I can take any more of that.” But her tone was light—not as cranky as she had been during the incident in question.

“But what are you saying? You’ll leave me if I get too sappy for you?” Hawke pretended to think about it for a moment, but couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face.

“You bet I will,” she said. “Better watch yourself. Insult me a few times or get snippy with me tomorrow so I know it’s still you.” Fenris made another disapproving noise, until Hawke leaned up to give him another kiss. They snuggled down into the lumpy bed and Hawke waved her hand to extinguish the candles burning on the end table. She slipped a hand into his, and they went to sleep like that, the moonlight that managed to pierce the Ferelden cloud-cover seeping through the thin curtains to put the edges of the room aglow in silvery light. Slowly, it faded, replaced with burgeoning sunlight. Fenris began to stir, and reached out to put his hand on Hawke, somewhere, anywhere. Neither of them was big on cuddling in bed—made it hard to sleep—but he liked having her within arms’ reach. It was—if he was willing to admit it—comforting, to be able to reach out and touch her, reassure himself that she was still there. 

But she was not there.

Fenris snapped open his eyes, slapped a hand down on her side of the bed, and noted the cool temperature.

“Hawke!” He knew her too well to pause for even a moment: he vaulted out of bed, not stopping for clothes or weapons as he pelted down the stairs, through the inn’s downstairs, and out the door. “Hawke!” he bellowed. The ground was slippery with morning dew, threatening to bring him down to the ground, but he dug his toes in as he raced to the stables. “Hawke!” Her pony was gone, as he had known it would be. Fenris swore at the top of his voice and exited the stable again, looking wildly around as if he might catch sight of her pony’s tail disappearing down the road. But there was no sign of her—she could have left hours ago.

Cussing and snarling to make a sailor faint, he barged back into the stables and noted something else—his pony was nowhere to be seen either. This sent him into another apoplectic paroxysm, and he had to gather himself for a moment. Hawke was not stupid enough to think he wouldn’t just come after her—of course she’d taken his damn pony. She’d at least slow him down as he tried to find a new mount—had she taken their money too?

“Dammit Freya,” he seethed through gritted teeth. “Damn you!” He was going to _strangle_ her when he saw her again. Anyone he passed on his way back to his room wisely took note of his foul expression and the cloud of incoherent rage that billowed around him and said nothing. In the room, he noted what he had missed in his earlier rush—Hawke’s things were gone. The clothes she had laid out so carefully the night before must have been easy to slip on without making too much noise. Only one thing of hers remained—a sack of coin on the end table. Apparently, given the choice between ensuring Fenris was unable to legally acquire a mount (she was certainly not so naive to think he was above stealing one, but she knew it would take him time to get there) and making sure he was able to easily obtain food, she had chosen the more humane route. Maybe there was some good to her personal transformation after all. To _hell_ if he wasn’t going to use the money to buy a horse and chase her down.

In the same black mood, he paid the tab, grunted in response to the innkeeper’s tentative thanks, and marched out into the gray morning. He tried to remember where Hawke had marked Varric’s location on the map, but he was no more practiced with reading those than he was with reading books, and in his frustration at his own helpless ignorance, he nearly tore his hair out. Ultimately, he decided the direction didn’t matter. He needed a mount, and he’d find another map. According to Hawke, Varric was at a fortress called Skyhold, in the Frostback mountains between Ferelden and Orlais. Maybe he didn’t even _need_ a map—he just needed to get started towards the mountains. He could get directions from people on the way—whomever was willing to give them to a lyrium-infused elf toting a two-handed blade.

Predictably, there were no mounts for sale in the village. He doubted anyone there who had one could afford to sell it for the immediate coin. Having wasted half a day wandering hither and thither about trying to find someone who might sell, Fenris set off in the direction of the Frostbacks (a chicken farmer had been willing to share this directional information with him) on foot. If Hawke thought something as petty as not having an animal to ride was going to stop him coming after her, she didn’t know him as well as he thought.

He did not come upon another village by the end of that day, or of the next. Instead, he camped out and dined on rations he and Hawke had bought before she left. When it came to hunting, his skills hovered somewhere around nonexistent. He and Hawke had begun the process of learning to set snares, after several months on the road, but they were not yet much good at it (And it took time—once the snare was set, one had to wait for something to trip it. Fenris did not have time). Typically, Hawke used magic to catch something. Fenris couldn’t do that, and even if he could hit a rabbit with his sword, he’d obliterate it in the action, rendering it inedible, unless he wanted to be picking shards of bone out of his teeth for hours. So it was bread, jerky, and whatever other dried things they had packed away. There were a few mint leaves tucked away for a treat. Fenris was at least used to being on the run and going hungry—he could tolerate that, if necessary.

“I could be set upon by marauders,” he said aloud as he warmed his hands over the small fire, picking the last bits of mint leaf from his teeth with the tip of his tongue. “Torn apart by wild beasts. Kidnapped by slavers. They might recognize my accent.” It felt good to blame Hawke for things she had no control over, but only as a cover for her jagged absence at his side. He began to realize how used to her presence he had grown. Since their first encounter in the Kirkwall alienage, he had seen her regularly several times a week, minimum. In the last three years, he’d barely gone a day without being around her, and since their defeat of Orsino and Meredith, they had been side-by-side constantly. Now her sudden absence was jarring in the worst of ways. It didn’t matter though—he’d catch up to her sooner or later. “Darkspawn could burst from the earth at any moment!”

The night was colder without Hawke’s warmth behind him, or any of her spells to ward off the elements. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to travel the road alone. He found he was not overly keen to remember. There was some peace in being away from the hectic city life, but alone in the open, Fenris still struggled with the feeling of being hunted. Even with Danarius dead, he did not think it was a feeling he would ever truly lose—only learn to control.

Another half-day’s walk passed, and then he caught sight of something down in a grassy knoll below the road. It _looked_ like a lone pony.

“Hawke,” he growled. Had she not even taken the damn beast, just loosed it out of the stable? Again, delaying! She knew she couldn’t _stop_ him from coming! It took twenty minutes to get from the path to the field, and the pony was watching him from the moment he got within a dozen yards of it. Spooked from two days on its own, it shied away from Fenris. He had never liked horses much, and had not worked in Danarius’ stables, or he might have known how to soothe the animal, make it come to him. As it was, he just tried approaching slowly, then throwing the saddle over it when he got close enough. This was too much sudden movement, and the pony took off. Hissing curses, Fenris gave chase. The pony circled the field and bolted up towards the road.

“Shit,” he panted, coming to a quick halt. This wasn’t going to work, the stupid equine could outpace him far too easily. Once again, Hawke’s magic would have come in handy, and he grimaced at the thought. Damn Hawke—making him wish for magic, making him miss Tevinter, making him miss _her!_ Her infuriating smirk and snickering laughter rang in his ears as he pictured her watching him chase his pony around a field. The tips of his ears got hot, and thought perhaps it wasn’t terrible that Hawke was not around to see this.

The pony stopped running when it realized Fenris was no longer chasing. The saddle, unbuckled, slipped off, and it began to graze again, with a wary eye in his direction. He spent nearly an hour trying to circle around behind it, only for it to turn around to face him every few feet. Eventually, he surrendered and sat down to hack off a slice of bread from the loaf in his bag and let the pony calm down. The exertion had at least warmed him up a bit, but there was still the matter of catching the pony. On sudden inspiration, he threw a bit of bread in its direction, but it did not bother with that, and went on eating its grass.

After his rest, Fenris went back to work, this time approaching the pony from the front, hand extended, moving painfully slowly to avoid startling it again. This time, he got close enough to touch its nose, and it all went much smoother after that. He was able to saddle it up and guide it back to the path. Now! Mounted, the Frostbacks were still several days’ journey away, but that was much faster than on foot. Yes, he had wasted half a day getting the pony back and would likely have to stop and camp soon, but everything _after_ this would go faster.

He went through the saddlebags anew after stopping for the night, and found a few things of Hawke’s that had gotten mixed up in his things, including a letter she had penned to Merrill but not had the chance to send yet. Curious, Fenris called it reading practice and unfurled it. Unfortunately, Hawke’s penmanship was _atrocious, _and he struggled to identify far too many of her letters to make real sense of the letter. Only a few phrases stood out:

“…have freed a number of Dalish and city elves before they set out for Tevinter…”

“…hope things are well in the alienage. Send word if Fenris and I can help…”

“Check with Aveline if you need support…threaten her myself if I have to…”

“I appreciate your support. It was good to have you with us going up against Orsino and Meredith.”

“Best wishes, Hawke”

She _was_ trying to be better. Even if Fenris thought some of her efforts were misguided—he considered her former attitude towards Merrill fully justified—he had to appreciate her putting in the work. It was so easy to fall back on old mindsets—Fenris knew that as well as anyone. Once one got into a way of thinking, it could be near impossible to change it.

The next day, he came upon a hamlet early in the day. Complaining to himself that if he had found it the day before, he could have stayed overnight, he dismounted to buy some more rations to journey on. There was no sense pulling over with so much daylight left, but he could resupply for the next few days.

The inn had some food available for purchase, and Fenris availed himself of that. As he exited, hefting his pack over one shoulder, a young human called out.

“Mister!”

It did not _occur _to Fenris that this could be addressed to him, so he just continued on towards the pony tied up outside.

“Hey, mister!” The voice still sounded quite close, so he turned his attention towards the noise, and was taken aback to see the youth looking at _him. _Dumbly, he raised a hand as if to gesture at himself. “You a warrior?” he asked, stopping before Fenris.

“I…” It seemed difficult to say _no_, with the sword strapped to his back, but he was no mercenary—that was Hawke’s deal.

“It’s just, there’s a problem, and we could really use some help,” the boy went on. “We could pay you a bit, even!”

“I really don’t have…” Hawke’s letter to Merrill came to mind, and her penitent haircut, and the fact that she had ridden off in the dead of night to rescue Varric, someone with whom she had disagreed on nearly _everything_. “What is it that’s wrong?”

“I’ll show you.” The boy started off, waving Fenris along after him, and with a great sigh, Fenris slung his bag over the saddle, and led his pony along behind. “We’ve got wolves,” the boy explained. “They moved into the words nearby last spring and they’ve been an awful nightmare. Killing the pigs, and travelers too, and they ain’t afraid of nothing. Pa’s been after them but no matter what he does it don’t make no difference—they keep coming back.”

“Wolves?” Fenris chuckled a little to himself, and the boy frowned, not understanding. “I have a friend who’s fond of wolves,” he explained lamely.

“Likes wolves? Never heard of anyone like that,” he replied.

“There aren’t many people like her.”

Dealing with the wolf problem took far longer than Fenris had hoped. The boy and his father explained the situation and they were not wrong—there was a pack of wolves that had taken up residence in the woods behind their house. If Fenris had known how long it would take to solve the problem, he would have brushed the brat off when he had the chance. Instead, he was five days down on travel, two and a half due to the savage bite one of the worthless beasts had given him just above his ankle. It seemed that despite Danarius’ impression of him, the wolves found little kinship with him.

During this time, he opted to sleep with the family’s workhorse rather than take the place in front of the fire the farmer’s wife had offered. It afforded more privacy, although it reminded him of nights he and Hawke had spent in similar lodgings. He couldn’t decide if this was a boon or a detractor. He remembered the first night they had slept in a stable well:

It had come after Hawke lost her first pony. Not far outside Kirkwall, they had been jumped by a gang of lowlifes who recognized Hawke and thought they could get a bounty from _someone_ for the ex-Champion of Kirkwall. Fenris and Hawke had won the ensuing fight, but not before one of them made an escape on Hawke’s pony. She cursed a blue streak and stopped wearing her Ferelden war paint across her nose after that.

“We’ve still got one, at least,” Fenris had said, taking his shot at optimism. The wounds of Kirkwall were fresh then—including Hawke’s resignation from the viscount position, something he knew pierced her deep with shame. Hawke—stubborn as Fenris himself—had only admitted she could not do the job when that was already clear to everyone else around her. Whatever the Champion had once been, she had been broken by the mounting losses in Kirkwall and the crippling fear that she could have stopped it. It was not the time for Fenris to complain about their situation, especially as he was arguably the far more recognizable one of the two. Since leaving Kirkwall, he had been quite glad that he had been, as Varric put it “a ghost” within the city. His time at Hawke’s side in the viscount’s manor had lessened that, to his risk, but who paid attention to elves?

“I’m riding in front,” she had replied, and so she had. The indignity of having to ride behind her could have been worse—like, for instance, chasing the pony around a field—and he was not so opposed anymore to being touched, particularly if it did not involve direct skin contact. They had ridden into the next village like that, with Fenris half-asleep against Hawke’s back. With her holding the reins, he had little reason to stay awake, especially as their conversation lapsed, and the rocking of the horse went on interminably and steadily.

“Is there a place to stay around here?” she asked the first man they came across, a solid-looking human fellow repairing a fence outside a house.

“Here?” It took him a moment to reply, he seemed so surprised by the question. He wiped his forehead. “No, we ain’t got no inn or nothing. You and your man’ll want to look at the next town over.”

“He’s not my servant,” Hawke said, and Fenris scowled, having missed the implication. Hawke looked up at the purpling sky, and then craned her head to try to look at Fenris. “We should stop for the night,” she said.

“Mm.” Fenris tried to shake off the sleep for a more coherent reply.

“We’re stopping.” She looked to the farmer. “You’ve got a stable, there,” she said, jutting her chin towards it. “I’ll pay you if we can stay the night.”

“You’re not on the run, are you?” the man asked, fairly.

“Just passing through,” she answered. A pause, and then she added, “We’re after this one’s clan.” She jerked her head towards Fenris. “Got family there.”

“Never heard of a human living with the Dalish.” The farmer rubbed his forehead again, quizzically. He did not note that Fenris’ tattoos looked nothing like Dalish vallaslin.

“We’ll solve that problem when we get there,” Hawke said shortly. “Right now, we need a place to stay. Yes or no?” The man squinted at them, no doubt judging what risk they posed on his property. “We’re not going to steal your horse,” Hawke said with tight exasperation. “We’ve got no use for a workhorse, and no time to find a buyer for stolen property.”

“Let’s just keep going,” Fenris grunted. “I’ll take over with the horse.” As unappealing as the idea of sleeping a night on horseback was, standing there arguing all night with some poor farmer was even less so.

“How much you offering?” Hawke seemed to consider, then dug around in her things—making a greater show of looking for the money than Fenris thought was genuine—and handed him a fistful of coppers. “Deal. You cause any trouble and I’ve got a nice big axe in the house and don’t I know how to use it.” Perhaps the dimming light made it hard for him to see the sword strapped to Fenris’ back—or perhaps he thought he could deter them with the mere thought of a fight.

“No trouble,” Hawke said, sliding down off the pony. Those early days had been rough—neither of them had been used to riding so much or so long. Their legs cramped, their backs ached, and their thighs and backsides blistered in the most uncomfortable of ways. Some hours they had taken the hit to their speed and walked alongside their mounts, just to be off them for a while. She stood stiff as a board, while Fenris stretched his stiff muscles surreptitiously, so as not to seem as inexperienced on horseback as they were. Hawke was better, after a childhood in rural Lothering, but it had been a decade since she had been regularly on horseback. Fenris had rarely ever had it, typically walking alongside his master, or, for particularly long trips, riding up top with the carriage driver. Who would waste a horse on a slave? Not because he might escape—Danarius never even considered the possibility, so tightly bound to him did he consider Fenris—but because it would require time and effort to train him, and might risk the chance of Fenris being seen as a _person_ instead of a possession in Danarius’ tow.

Once they were ensconced in the small, tidy stable, they both bent over backwards trying to stretch the soreness out of their bodies. Hawke rubbed vigorously at her ass, trying to regain some feeling, and Fenris pressed his palms against the floor, desperate to be in _any _position that wasn’t slumped over with his legs hanging off a pony.

“Maker, I don’t remember this being so much of a pain in the ass,” Hawke groused, and Fenris glanced over at her—not straightening off the floor—to arch an eyebrow. She wrinkled her nose at him in response, and took her hands off her rear. “Not a word about puns.”

“Do I look like Varric to you?” Hawke sighed at the mention and shook her head. They hadn’t seen him since departing Kirkwall, and letters were hard to send and come by on the road. There had been much on which Varric and Hawke disagreed, but their loyalty to one another was admirable. It was one of the things that first made Fenris think he could trust Hawke: if she was so true to her friends, she seemed less likely to betray him. For the most part, one could take Hawke at face value. Blunt and uncompromising she could be, but rarely duplicitous. More things Fenris appreciated about her.

They ate in the stable—dried things, nothing requiring a fire—with their feet touching, and retired to an empty stall after Hawke had used a small soothing spell on their tormented legs. Fenris had resisted all attempts by Hawke to use her magic to his benefit, outside of battle, since the beginning. His stance on this had shifted but a grudging inch or two since then. But when she could sit down without hissing, and he stood with arms crossed, unwilling to even make the effort, he had to cave—she had worked the spell out weeks ago and used it religiously on both of them, running her hands just above the backs and outside of Fenris’ thighs, and over his backside, gently waving away the pain. It was not a big spell—its effects rarely lasted more than the night, and it did not heal the blisters that formed and burst from days spent riding without rest—but it was enough to help. Anything to put to rest one of the three terrors that hounded them on the road—pain, hunger, and exhaustion.

Relaxation had been exceedingly scarce for either of them since fleeing the city. Fenris was used to looking over his shoulder everywhere he went, but for Hawke the sensation was new. For him, there was reassurance in knowing there was someone else watching his back—for her, only fear that one or both of them would be recognized and caught—whether by slavers on lookout for the troublemakers who had been liberating their cargo; the Kirkwall Templars, who had not been on particularly jovial terms with Hawke when she left; or the mages, who might be looking to exact revenge on the Champion for her lack of support. They had discussed, a few times, what would happen, and come to the conclusion Hawke was likely to be imprisoned and trialed—possibly executed, possibly exonerated on lack of evidence that could connect her to any of Kirkwall’s disasters, or to the recent raids on slaving caravans—and Fenris was likely to be either shipped back to Tevinter to be re-sold, or released as a simple vagrant, depending on who got ahold of him. The conversation had gone about with all the gravity of discussing the weather, but he saw the tension in Hawke’s shoulders when speaking of any return of Fenris’ to captivity. And Hawke was rarely in a fouler temper than when she was afraid (“A useless, whining feeling!” she had once declared in disgust). She seemed to have taken responsibility for his safety over the course of their time in Kirkwall, as she had done with a number of their friends—he wondered, sometimes, if this was tied into what had happened to her sister. It did not matter that he was a lyrium-powered, trained bodyguard wielding a two-handed blade—Hawke never hesitated to step between him and trouble.

Although it was unnecessary, and her twig-like mage physique did little to render her physically imposing, Fenris could not stop a rush of affection every time she did it. It was _stupid_—but Hawke being stupid over him could be endearing.

Not at all like now.

She had gone to sleep that night leaning back against the wall of the stable, hood pulled low over her eyes, arms folded. Wary, even in rest. Fenris followed suit, removing only as much as he needed to to be able to get to sleep. Dawn rose on them slouched together, passed out. Hawke’s hand rested over one of Fenris’. Luckily, the farmer did not intend them harm, no one who did located them, and they were able to be on their way later that morning, in search of another pony.

Fenris had insisted on leading the mount the next day, forgetting, for a time, that Hawke was nearly of a height to rest her chin on top of his head in that position. It had been a relief to both of them to purchase a new pony for her.

That led him down the path of recalling their time in Kirkwall, and it was altogether a miserable five days, despite how grateful the family was that he had been able to slay or drive off all of the wolves. He rode off advising them to say nothing of his presence there, and with a fresh loaf of bread in his saddlebags. On the road, his thoughts turned to what he was going to say to Hawke when he caught up with her again, and this was something of a distraction from the constant dull ache in his leg. If they had been together, it wouldn’t have happened, he thought sourly.

The nearer he drew to the Frostbacks, the colder the weather got. Hawke had waved off the wet weather during their travels lately, saying it was coming into fall and this was to be expected. But _this_ seemed unreasonable for any season outside the dead of winter. Hawke had left him with coin, but not enough to throw around. He scrutinized the coins at length, deciding if he had enough to spare for boots and a heavier cloak to travel into the mountains. It might make him short for food or lodging, but eventually he decided he was soon headed into a place where neither would be available for purchase anyway. He used the last of the money on cold-weather supplies. Having lived all his life that he could recollect in sunny Tevinter, he didn’t know what he needed, and was sure he had bought too much, but that was _Hawke’s_ problem. It was her money.

“I hope her toes freeze off,” he told his pony, which he had taken to thinking of as Augustus. Bestowing a noble Tevene name upon a humble Ferelden pony seemed a form of justice. In no time, his own feet felt unbearably restricted in his new fur-lined boots—but they were warm.

Mostly, he wished that went he went to sleep at night, he had the option of pressing close to Hawke’s relative warmth. That he had someone else around to ask these questions of whether he ought to buy two pairs of gloves or if one would do. That he wasn’t reduced to talking to his _pony._

The villages thinned out the nearer he drew to the mountains, and the ones he did pass through became sparser, the people terser. It was strange, not to hear the quiet clop of Hawke’s pony beside or behind him, not to see her lanky form swaying steadily in front of him.

Soon enough, he was spending nights outside, in the snow. He cursed himself for not knowing more about how to camp in the snow—he was sure there were tricks of which he wasn’t aware. He just tried to bundle up in as much clothing as he could, and slept huddled against Augustus, keeping the fire burning as long as he could. He’d rather deal with marauders attracted by the firelight than be snatched up by a frost giant, or lose his feet.

The benefit to Hawke’s departure to such an organization as the Inquisition was that their agents were not hard to find, and the common folk spoke of them. The agents were far more forthcoming, especially with a half-assed sob story about being cast out from his clan and looking to train and help the movement (to the humans and dwarves, at least—he had noted a _number_ of elves and was very short of word when they were about. Any of them, even city elves, were likely to know from the get-go he was not Dalish). Getting directions to Skyhold—that was the castle—had been far easier than Fenris expected. But then, who was mad enough to attack a fortress this high up in the mountains?

“I’m coming for you,” he murmured, wrapped up in both his light and heavy cloaks, hunched as close to the fire as he could without singing his bangs off. The heat seared his face, but he stayed so close as long as he could bear it, staring into the flickering flames. Fire licked and caressed the kindling he had gathered, so gentle in its consumption. Fenris knew better than to be fooled—fire had swallowed Kirkwall whole, had eaten up Hawke’s life, consumed himself from the inside-out. He felt he understood, now, the maxim about those who play with fire.

Even now, he could not bring himself to regret it. Playing with fire had brought him to Hawke. Had put Danarius’ beating heart in his hand. Had taken him away from Tevinter. Hopefully, someday, it would be as his little campfire: warm, reassuring, a beacon in the darkness. Something he did not have to fear. Fenris had almost had enough of forest fires for a lifetime.

He recalled his last meeting with Danarius. Specifically, Hawke’s face. She was not a flamboyant person, her anger burned cold and long. He was sure his old master had not seen it, but Fenris had—their friends had. The incandescent rage that pulsed off her, spreading into every corner of the room, the hatred in her face. For a man she had never met—whom she knew only through Fenris’ stories. On his word alone, for his sake alone, she felt such a fury towards this man that she would not even hear him speak before she had raised her staff to strike him down. Fenris thought of this moment often, and the way Hawke’s eyes had blazed. He thought too, of Danarius’ face, in the split-second when he realized he was going to have to fight the Champion of Kirkwall to regain his lost property. The brief thread of fear—here was a woman who had gone toe-to-toe with the Arishok and his Qunari host, who was renowned for busting slave rings and gangs the city over, who was an apostate even the zealous Knight-Commander Meredith dare not drag into the Circle—quickly overcome with his own vanity and arrogance. But more—the stupefied shock. That anyone, let alone a person of _worth_ (the _Champion,_ scion of the remnants of the _Amell_ family) would consider Fenris someone (not some_thing_) to fight for. He was sure in his last minutes, Danarius had been certain Hawke simply meant to rob him of something valuable, but that didn’t matter. Danarius’ ignorance was irrelevant. Fenris knew the truth. He saw, and his master was blind. And now he was rotting in the same grave as Fenris’ sister, born into slavery, and the men who had been so foolish as to serve him.

Varric had asked her once, why Hawke was not more concerned seeing Fenris go into battle. Her blasé attitude about it had caught his attention, perhaps because she, as a mage, hung around the edges of the battle, while Fenris was always in the heart of it, swinging his blade elbow-to-elbow with Aveline. Hawke had simply shrugged.

“Fenris can take care of himself. He doesn’t need me looking over his shoulder like a nursemaid. I trust him not to get himself killed.” And she did—Hawke implicitly trusted Fenris to have her back, and vis-versa. There was therefore no need to worry, for they were both talented and aware, and she would not get herself killed worrying needlessly about Fenris’ ability to protect himself. But when it came to Danarius, it had gone beyond that. It wasn’t about his safety—she trusted him to rip out Danarius’ heart before they were through, and she would not take the pleasure from him—it was about vengeance, plain and simple.

“Well, we paid him back,” Fenris muttered, finally turning his back to the fire when his sweating face could not take the heat anymore. The thought did not give him as much satisfaction as he had always imagined. The more time that passed, the less it became about Danarius, and the more it was about himself, and Hawke. That he had freed himself, and what Hawke had been willing to do for him. He didn’t need the heart—just needed to break the chain.

Out of Kirkwall, with Danarius’ death years behind him, and Hawke by his side, he had begun to think, for the first time, about a future. She had said so, once, when he had been wallowing in the dissatisfaction of having killed his former master—that he needed to start on that. He’d considered it, although he had been put out with the response at the time, but had still gone on the same way he always had in Kirkwall: skulking around Danarius’ mansion, draining the wine cellar bottle by bottle, and following Hawke around on her errands. Having left the city, it felt like they had finally broken the last threads tying him to his old life as a slave, and his life as a fugitive. He and Hawke weren’t specifically _fugitives_ now, it was just…better to lay low.

When he saw the towers of Skyhold rising up, he first thought they were just oddly shaped parts of the mountain. He had to get nearer before it was clearly a man-made structure, and the relief that swept over him was almost tiring. Directions were helpful, but if they were even slightly off, or he made a mistake in following them, he could have easily wound up stumbling around the mountains until he froze or Augustus broke a leg and he had to eat his pony. Now he just had to make his way over there.

Easier said than done.

It took two more days to get to Skyhold after it came into clear sight, and involved an infuriating amount of backtracking and strategizing to get where he needed to be without going over a cliff into a ravine. That would be a fine way to end things, plunging to his death on an exhausted pony after he had come all this way to give Hawke a very loud and very profane piece of his mind.

No one took a shot at him as he crossed the bridge over to the fortress, but they did ask his business when he arrived at the gate.

“I’m looking for the Champion of Kirkwall,” he said, trying to sound sincere about the title, and not think of the jokes they had made about it in bed.

There was some discussion about the veracity of his word, but ultimately it was decided that a lone rider, no matter how large his sword, was no threat to a paramilitary organization. Fenris did not yet mention Varric—he wasn’t sure that would earn him points or marks against him—but they let him in regardless.

“The Champion is not here,” one of the gate-guards informed him. “She left some time ago with Seeker Pentaghast and the Inquisitor to investigate Adamant Fortress.”

“Where is that?” Fenris asked, his mouth turning down sharply. It was too much to hope Hawke wouldn’t have pushed Varric to leave immediately after her arrival, to prevent the chance that he would reach her while she was still there at Skyhold.

“In the Western Approach,” the guard said.

“…far from here?” Fenris grasped the reins of his pony again.

“Out in the desert,” the guard replied. “In Orlais.”

“Orlais!” _Hawke, I’m going to bury you in the sand._

“It’s a bit of a ride,” the guard said. “If you’re after the Champion, might be better just to wait here.”

“I will not sit around waiting for her to return,” he snarled. The wolf bite was healing, and he had made it halfway over the mountains just to reach Skyhold. He’d go the rest of the way to reach Orlais, and get to the damnable Western Approach, and hang Hawke off the edge of the fortress by her ankles for making him come all the way alone.

“Well if you’re going to head out, might want to at least let Master Dennett take a look at your pony there,” the guard advised. “Even for a pony, it’s a tough trip through the mountains.”

That was a fair point, and Fenris grudgingly acceded. He delivered the beast to the Inquisition’s stable, handing the reins off to Dennett.

“I need him ready to ride tomorrow,” he said. _Is this where you’re sleeping, Hawke?_ He glanced at the stable from the corners of his eyes, picturing the straw sticking to her jet-black hair.

“You _can_ ride him tomorrow, but it’ll probably be best to let him rest a few days,” Dennett recommended, abandoning the saddle he had been polishing to look over Augustus. “Looks like you’ve been keeping him mighty busy. And it’s not an easy trip up here. Where do you plan on taking him?”

“Western Approach,” Fenris grunted.

“Hmm, yes, I would let him rest a few days, at least,” Dennett said.

“I’ll pick him up tomorrow.” Fenris walked away before Dennett could waste any more breath on well-intentioned advice he had no plans to heed. Momentarily lost, he looked around the massive courtyard. The clang and shouts of soldiers training was the most audible thing. There were some merchants, negotiating trade beneath the walkway, the sharp whacking of someone cutting wood in the barn, and messengers running all about. Birds sailed over head, either belonging to the Inquisition, or having found an unexpected respite in their trip through the mountains. It felt warmer, too—or was it his imagination? Fenris shrugged off his heavier cloak and pulled off his boots. There was no snow on the ground here—no need for shoes.

When he saw the tavern, it seemed like the obvious place to go. He got a drink, and the bartender advised him of some free space in unused towers along the ramparts, although he admitted with apology that the tavern was full up on residents, what with The Iron Bull and his Chargers there. Fenris knocked back his drink in an isolated corner of the tavern, and went to investigate these unused towers.

Maybe the castle had been unused before the Inquisition got there. One of the corner towers was indeed abandoned, its furniture dilapidated and spiders manifesting in every corner. Fenris beat the worst of the dust off the bed and laid down to rest for a moment.

When he woke up, the tower was pitch dark and the moon was at its zenith. He had _vastly_ underestimated how much of a relief it was to sleep in a real bed, away from the snow, with no pony hooves poking into his ribs or legs, and no worries about bandits or slavers coming over him in the middle of the night. He lifted his head from the mattress and looked out one of the narrow windows, wiping the drool off his face. The night sky above the mountains was a beautiful sight. He might have gone out to have a look at another time, but as it was, his head dropped promptly back onto the mattress and he was out again.

He dreamed that he found Hawke out in the desert, and screamed at her for abandoning him, for allowing herself the weakness of trying to protect him, for losing her head when he needed her with him. She was too tired from whatever had happened at Adamant to argue, and just enveloped him in her arms. Fenris sank into her embrace, burying his face in her chest, and made her promise never to do anything like that again.

Then they were back in Kirkwall, where the Arishok was viscount, and Merrill had purchased the Hanging Man, and Hawke’s mother, her face sewn terribly onto that revolting patchwork of victims, shambled around serving things.

“I have to go,” Hawke was saying to him.

“Not yet,” Fenris said. “Another round of cards. Varric will deal.”

“I don’t have time,” Varric said. “Bartrand needs me to buy plates.”

“I need to go,” Hawke said, getting to her feet.

“Just one more,” Fenris said, grabbing her arm. His heart hammered against his chest; he had to make her stay. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Oh come on, Fenris,” Isabela sighed, laying on the floor with her legs kicked up against the wall. There was a Qunari blade sticking out of her gut, and pages from the Tome of Koslun papered the floor around and underneath her. “You know Merrill doesn’t serve drinks anymore.”

“It’s just lyrium now,” Anders sighed, picking a chunk off Leandra’s tray and turning it over discontentedly in his hands. He wore the face of Vengeance and did not move his mouth to speak.

“I’ll see you later, Fenris,” Hawke said.

“No! Don’t you care about anyone but yourself?” Fenris said, slamming his fist down on the table. “You owe me another round of cards, Hawke!” Leandra dropped her tray, and one of the customers began to berate her.

“You can play with Varric and Merrill,” Hawke said. Behind the bar, Merrill was talking with a dark-haired mage who smiled sweetly and made Fenris’ stomach turn.

“Varric doesn’t have time,” Fenris said, almost pleading. “Another round, Hawke. One more, and you can go. Just one more.”

“I can’t, Fenris.” Hawke leaned over the table to peck his lips. When she drew back, he tasted blood on his mouth. “I need to go now.”

“Dammit, Freya!”

“Don’t wear out my name,” she said, flashing him a grin as she reached for the door, which seemed much closer than it had been just a moment ago. “Stay on your toes, pretty boy. I’ll be back for you later.”

“Hawke!”

Fenris woke up with his head hot and his feet cold, and the ugly realization he was probably not going anywhere that day. It took another hour to drag himself out of his room, and he went straight to the tavern for something to eat and something to drink.

“You look new around here. Drinking before nine already?” Fenris turned to see a redheaded dwarf pulling herself onto the bar stool beside him. He grunted. “My name’s Harding. Lace. I do forward scouting for the Inquisition.” She thrust her hand out, and Fenris stared at her a moment before giving her hand a brief, loose shake. “What brings you to Skyhold?”

“Looking for someone.” Fenris felt his tone made it clear where he stood on the idea of continuing a conversation, but Harding was not deterred.

“The Inquisitor? She’s out right now, but if you have something to ask her, she’ll listen when she gets back. She’s good at listening to people. Likes to help.” Fenris grunted again, and took a long drink from his pint. Wine was difficult to come by this high up in the mountains, to his disappointment. Harding said something else about the Inquisitor, and Fenris finished his drink in a hurry, ready to go check on Augustus, when it occurred to him she might know someone _else_ he needed to get ahold of.

“Do you know another dwarf around here?” he interrupted.

“What, you think all surfacers know each other?” Harding seemed more surprised than offended at his words. “There’s me, Dagna, Inquisitor Cadash, Meryn, Lily, Ruby, Varric—”

“That one,” Fenris burst in.

“Varric? He’s an interesting one,” Harding said, and Fenris fought the urge to tear his hair out. “He has great stories! Really funny. Kind of surprised Seeker Pentaghast hasn’t killed him yet. Still time, I suppose. He’s out with the Inquisitor now.”

“He’s not here?” Fenris had assumed he would be off wherever Hawke was, but it was worth checking on. If he wasn’t, he would know where she was.

“No, but—”

Fenris slid off his stool, left his coins on the bar, and walked out.

“Bye, then,” Harding said to herself as he left the tavern.

What did the Seekers have them doing? Pentaghast…he swore he’d heard the name before. A smaller magister family, perhaps? Or someone outside Tevinter? He had to get to the Western Approach. Some Seekers had taken Varric and Hawke hostage and hustled them off to some Maker-forsaken corner of Orlais to do _something_ involving Grey Wardens, whose exact purpose Fenris was still not clear on, and he was trapped in the middle of the mountains with only a worthless pony to get him all the way over there before they did something _stupid_. And they _would_, because it was Varric and Hawke and together they had perhaps two brain cells to rub together.

He wanted to press on. To take his pony back from Dennett and ride off for the Western Approach _now_. He had come all this way but she wasn’t _here_, and he had counted on her _being_ here, but she wasn’t, and he couldn’t just _sit_ here and _wait_ for her, he had to _find_ her, had to _be_ there with her!

But his trip up to Skyhold had made it very clear how little he knew about the mountains, and as much as Fenris wanted to find Hawke, he did not want to die in the attempt. He stood in the courtyard clenching and unclenching his fists. Both he and Augustus were not at peak form after their long and difficult days of travel, and realistically he knew a single extra day of rest would not make that much of a difference. But sitting still for even a day when Hawke was somewhere he didn’t know, doing something dangerous—so dangerous she did not trust _him_ to be there—was intolerable.

He tried to calm himself by walking around Skyhold, familiarizing himself with the area, but the agitation was impossible to disperse. At mid-day, he tried to lay down for a nap, thinking the more he rested that day, the better shape he’d be in to head out the next day. But he couldn’t get to sleep, and the bed creaked and groaned every time he turned over. He gave up on that after less than half an hour.

Pacing the ramparts again took up another couple hours, and then he decided to try to write Hawke a message. Tracking down a quill and a bit of parchment took up some more time, and he was then able to install himself upstairs in the tavern, by a window, to painfully scratch out what he wanted to say. He began with telling Hawke to get her sorry ass back to Skyhold ASAP, or Maker help her, and from there devolved into a vitriolic diatribe against her for being selfish and thoughtless, and degraded further still into desperate pleading for her to come back.

“Well I am definitely not sending this,” Fenris muttered to himself, looking it over. Partly, at least, because he didn’t think Hawke would be able to read it. His handwriting wasn’t the best in ideal circumstances—they had spent less time on this than his reading—but this was really…Fenris turned the letter around in his hands, unsure if _he’d_ be able to read it.

While considering whether or not to go in search of more parchment for a letter he knew he would never send, he studied his writing and thought back to long summer days in Hawke’s mansion, when the shadow of the old stone home was their best respite from the sun at summer’s peak. They would sit in the library, by the window, and Hawke would go over the same sentences with him again and again and again with more patience than he had ever thought her capable of. She would sit and listen to him stumble through words she had shown him a dozen times before, keep silent when he swore and stomped around the room in frustration, feeling like a fool for not being able to do something everyone else seemed to find so easy. There were her eyes, silently telling him he was being a child for expecting it to come so quickly, but she didn’t say so aloud. When he was done with his snits, he always came back.

Even after he had left her—with a pause of nearly two months notwithstanding—she had continued. Compared to Danarius’ freezing, dilapidated mansion, Hawke’s home felt like stepping into a painting of a cozy kitchen with a roaring fire and platters full of food. The first few winters in the Free Marches had been difficult: compared to winters in Tevinter, which were all but nonexistent in much of the country, things got far too chilly for Fenris’ tastes. It had nothing on southern Ferelden, of course, but he had yet to venture down that far at that time. In those days, they would sit by the fireplace, and on days when Fenris was too frustrated or too tired or too wired up to focus, Hawke would read to him herself, from all manner of books. She was particularly fond of historical tomes, but the Hawke-Amell library had plenty of fiction too. Fenris liked both—the historical ones taught him things he had never learned as a slave (No one wanted an educated slave—why give them more tools with which they might realize their plight?), and the fiction ones, particularly fantasy, took him away not only from his past, but from the struggles of his present.

Truthfully, he would have listened to anything Hawke wanted to read. Even after he had left her, he knew he wore an incriminating look on his face as they sat on the sofa and he listened to her voice, watched the way the light of the fire danced across her face, noted how even when her own eyes were heavy with sleep after a busy day, she didn’t put him off—not about this. It was imp0ortant, she insisted, with as little explanation as always. Maybe this was why she never looked up at him while she was reading—she stopped herself from catching him with that _puppy dog_ look.

“She’s giving you a tool,” Varric had told him once. “Even if you leave Kirkwall, you won’t forget what you learned. Reading’s one of those things you never forget, like learning how to catch a greased nug. Could come in real handy someday.”

That was why she hadn’t stopped after their relationship cracked apart. There was the pleasure of the excuse to spend time together, especially in the days before he had admitted his feelings, but more, Hawke was giving him independence. Something he could use—something he might need—if he ever left her company entirely.

Fenris realized he had been staring at his clumsy letter for an extended period of time, and it was crumpled around where he clutched it between his hands. He looked it over one last time, pressed it briefly to his chest, and went downstairs to toss it into the fire. He didn’t need a letter—he was going to _see_ Hawke soon.

The weather did not permit him to depart the next day either. Fenris was beginning to think the Maker himself was conspiring to keep him apart from Hawke. The squall that passed through the mountains did not touch Skyhold, but it left the bridge across the chasm before it thick and deadly slick with ice, as well as the pathways leading up to it. Whatever mages had been recruited were working double time with fire spells to clear it, but it would take them at least the full day, maybe two or three.

Before Skyhold had been melted out of its isolation, scouts had reported seeing the Inquisitor’s party making their way back. Fenris went up into the main castle, where he had not ventured before, and took note of the throne at the far end of the room. This would be where the Inquisitor came, certainly. There, he waited.

Since Varric was with them, he expected he would hear them coming well before he saw them, but they might have managed to sneak up on him if he had not been turning his head at every movement in that direction for the last several hours. It must have been a wearying trip indeed, to quiet Varric’s chatter! He stepped away from the wall where he had been lurking.

‘Where is she? I’m going to kill her,” he said.

“Fenris! Shit, you surprised me.” Varric did look surprised, but not in the way one might expect seeing an old friend turn up out of the blue after months apart. Fenris narrowed his eyes at Varric, then looked up at the rest of the party. A cursory glance had told him Hawke wasn’t there—Varric was accompanied by another dwarf—Cadash, Harding had called her—a human woman with a Chantry emblem painted onto her breastplate—the Seeker?--and a human mage who looked disgustingly like a Tevinter magister. Fenris’ lip curled and he nearly growled like his namesake.

“Where is she?” If Hawke thought she could avoid him, she was a fool—but she was right to fear he’d gone through the effort of tracking her down. He stepped closer to Varric, arms crossed over his chest. Fenris was by no means tall, but he had height on Varric, and no qualms against using it (he so rarely had the chance). “She’s can’t hide forever.”

Varric didn’t look right though. Fenris expected him to be, if anything, amused with the thought of Fenris reading Hawke the riot act, as he seemed entertained with all fights and explosions that happened around him. He might cringe on his old companion’s behalf, knowing how sharp of tongue Fenris could be, but he would also know Hawke had brought this on herself. So why did he not look in the slightest as he should? Varric was not often somber, but his expression unsettled something deep in Fenris’ gut.

“Varric. Hawke. Where?” Varric looked helplessly around, his Adam’s apple bobbing, lips trembling uselessly.

“She didn’t make it.” It was the Chantry-affiliated human who spoke at last, unable to bear Varric’s ongoing silence. Fenris snapped his gaze up to her.

“What?”

“The Champion. She…did not survive the last mission.” Fenris was not even aware of his tattoos glowing to life as his attention whipped back to Varric.

“What does she mean? Where is Hawke? What was this mission? If someone has her, I’ll find her. I’ll cut down this whole army if that’s what it takes.” Varric was shaking his head, and suddenly, Fenris could not feel the stones of the castle beneath his feet.

“We…fuck.”

“We were in the Fade,” Inquisitor Cadash said, leaping in to spare Varric the explanation. “We were in the Fade and…there was this demon. A fear demon.” She glanced back at the magister-looking type, who gave a small nod of confirmation. Fenris’ teeth ground together, and the muscles in his jaw were so tight it felt like they might snap. “We couldn’t fight it,” she said, lowering her head. “It was too strong. So…Hawke…stayed behind. To distract it, so everyone else could escape.”

The threads binding Fenris to the earth broke, and he watched himself from above, as he stepped back from Varric, shaking and wobbling, then lunged at the dwarf and seized him by the throat.

“You left her in the Fade!” he screamed. “You left her behind! After everything she did for you! _You left her behind!” _Varric seemed to make no effort to defend himself—or it was simply so ineffective, against Fenris’ brute strength, lyrium coursing through his veins. Even the part of Fenris watching the whole scene unfold was barely aware this was something he should not be doing.

“Seeker, do something!” someone shouted as Fenris lifted Varric off his feet.

“You took her away from me!”

At once, he let go and jerked back. The magister-type was aiming his staff at Fenris, cutting off his movement. The woman—the Seeker—grabbed Varric by the shoulder, hustling him away from Fenris and stepping between them, blade drawn. The hatred that gushed molten through his breast was what brought Fenris back to himself, staring at the magister-type as if he could rip him apart with his mind, the way he had seen Hawke do to her enemies.

“I’ll kill you,” he breathed. “Tevinter scum!”

“Just calm down, I’ll let you go,” the man said. If Fenris could have moved a finger, he would have done it, would have ripped the human’s heart from, his breast, punching down through his ribs to curl his fingers around the hot, throbbing organ, to yank it out, tearing it away from the veins and arteries that held it in place, and perhaps he would have eaten it, shredding it apart with his teeth to show Tevenes what they got for wielding their magic like a cudgel.

“Hh…nnn…,” Varric wheezed, his voice squeaking out, but forming no coherent words.

“I’ll have no murders in the hall,” the Seeker said, her brow a firm line. She waved the magister-type off, directing him out of the hall, and slowly moved in front of his retreating form as the spell wore off Fenris, granting him movement again. Varric looked up at him with watery eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

That was it.

Fenris, unable to shield himself in fury any longer, collapsed to his knees and howled, a keening cry that bounced off the stone walls, reverberating around the hall beneath the Inquisition’s banners. He dug his hands into his hair and covered his face, hunching over until his forehead touched the floor.

“_Hawke!_”

He was not aware of what happened after Varric’s apology. There was nothing in the world but the pain, as if someone were performing his own trick on him, and he could look at his heart, beat slowing, blood draining, sitting on the floor in front of him. They had done it, all of them—Hawke and Varric and the Seekers and the Tevenes and the Inquisitor—all of them. They had stolen the only thing he had.

He did not cry.

There was too much shock. His body could not process it all, could barely comprehend the magnitude of what had happened. He just stayed where he was, when the wailing had subsided, trying to tell himself that Hawke was gone. The effort plunged him ceaselessly into memories of her, of them, of Kirkwall, of their final argument. He recited it to himself over and over and over, as if he could glean something from it that would explain why this had happened. She hadn’t even told him what exactly Varric needed her for. He hadn’t asked.

It was hours later that he resurfaced, for all reasons, because his stomach was empty and complaining. He was stunned into silence by his own pedestrian needs. Varric was there, sitting on the floor by the wall, watching him. The others were gone, the hall lit by candles. Varric’s thick neck was ringed with thin purpling bruises, but Fenris did not feel guilt.

“Leave me,” Fenris croaked.

“Thought you might want…to know,” Varric whispered. “About Hawke. How it happened.”

“I don’t. It doesn’t matter.” Fenris sat on his heels looking up at the moonlight that beamed softly through the grand windows above the balcony. His words fell flat; the rage from before, the grief, were gone. He felt as drained as if he had been fighting for days. “She’s gone. They took and took and took from her until they took everything.”

“I tried to stop it. The Inquisition has been after Hawke since the explosion at the Conclave. I didn’t want them to have her. But when we found out that Corypheus was involved…”

“That’s why she came.” Some of that feeling threatened to return, and Fenris desperately tried to hold onto the numbness. He rubbed at his eyes and hid his face again. “She blamed herself. She’s blamed herself for everything since Meredith died.”

“I told her not to do it.”

“And she listened as much as she ever did to you,” Fenris said, pressing the heels of his hands against his thighs. Varric fell silent, shame pulsing off him in waves. “Hawke…” His voice broke and his hands curled into fists, nails digging into his legs. Every part of him felt like stone, so brittle and rigid. “Why did she have to be responsible for everyone else’s problems?”

“Hawke had a—” Varric broke off to cough, “—talent for getting in over her head. But she always managed to make it work. Until…”

“They could have had anyone in the world,” Fenris said, rising to his feet. “And they took the one that mattered to me.” He shivered, and his throat tightened until it ached from the underside of his jaw down to his collarbone.

“You could…stay. Help the Inquisition,” Varric said.

“No.” Fenris shook his head. “I can’t.” He walked out of the great hall bathed in moonlight, out into the courtyard, and vanished down the pale stone steps.

In the Inquisitor’s throne room, there was silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Hahaha did anyone think that was going to end happily. As someone who prides herself on dialogue, writing a piece that was 90% prose and exposition was...challenging. I hope it's still interesting to read.
> 
> [tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/187971345725/far-beyond-the-city-walls) | [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/852948)


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